


Last Train Home

by turnyourankle



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Doppelganger, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-15
Updated: 2008-01-15
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan doesn't expect to find a younger version of himself sitting in his living room when he comes home. And yet, there he is. They are? What the fuck ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Train Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle, prompt 'time travel'. It's more angsty than porny though. Unbeta'd.

Ryan doesn't expect to find a younger version of himself sitting in his living room when he comes home. And yet, there he is. They are? What the fuck ever.   
  
He doesn't really have time for this kind of stuff; there's writing to be done, dishes to clean, errands to run, voicemail to listen to. The kid doesn't look threatening -- and if it really  _is_  him Ryan doesn't have much to worry about. He reminds himself that he has, after all, been up for thirty hours straight; that his apartment is filled with blank reflective surfaces; that maybe that really bad drug trip he had years ago was acid based and he's having a flashback.  
  
There are many logical explanations as to why this might be happening.  
  
  
*  
  
When the kid shows no signs of dissolving or fading away, Ryan says, "I'm not giving you my bed."   
  
He dumps a quilt that Hobo hasn't mutilated onto the couch. The kid doesn't speak or move, even when Hobo starts sniffing around the hem of his jeans, biting into the fabric. Maybe the kid's a robot. An un-birthday gift from Brendon and Spencer.  
  
*  
  
There's a mouth around Ryan's cock when he wakes up. He bucks his hips on instinct, pleasantly surprised at the warmth and wetness surrounding him. It's unfamiliar: tongue sloppily trying to circle his dick, but still finding all of Ryan's most sensitive spots, manages to push all his buttons, even if it's clumsy. Ryan groans and reaches down, grabbing a head full of hair and -  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
It's not Keltie; she didn't spend the night, and her hair isn't this dark and short and thin. The kid glances up as he concentrates his efforts on the tip of Ryan's dick, and he jerks his hips again, involuntarily.   
  
He twitches at the sensation, looking into his own face as he does. It's so, so wrong, but so hot all the same. The kid's cheeks are hollowed out, and he's bobbing his head. His hands are spread across Ryan's hips, holding him firmly in place. He's stronger than Ryan remembers being.   
  
The mouth on Ryan's dick is replaced with a hand, and the kid starts nipping the inside of Ryan's thigh, moving all the way up to his bellybutton. An uneven smile greets Ryan as he comes, spurting over his stomach.   
  
"So, I need a shower," the kid says, picking at the come in his hair. "And I'm not a robot."  
  
*  
  
The kid walks around in nothing but low riding jeans after that. He gives Ryan calculated looks: tilts his head and bites his lip, looks at Ryan through the thick strands of hair covering his face. It's meant to be coy, Ryan knows, but he has to stop himself from wincing every time he notices what the kid's doing.   
  
"I'm not your type," Ryan says, cut and dry and hopefully not too harsh.   
  
"But I could be yours," he says, and Ryan can feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising.  
  
"You should get dressed."  
  
"Why? It's the only way you'll pay attention. My body is a temple and my temple likes to be naked. And it's not like you haven't seen it all before," He singsongs the last part, and Ryan can tell it's purposefully out of tune. Ryan relents, and returns to his newspaper, deliberately ignoring the fluttering eyelashes directed at him.  
  
*  
  
The apartment smells of liquor when Ryan gets home; open bottles and cans spilling over the kitchen island. He expects the kid to say something, but he just stares defiantly, jaw clenched. Doesn't look drunk. There's no control in his face, features twisted. Anger radiates from him in waves.  
  
Ryan knows that look. It's the bastard child of disappointment, disapproval and disbelief. He remembers spending hours in front of his mirror wearing it away: stilling his muscles, making his eyes as blank as possible. It's more disturbing to be face to face with that expression again than seeing his seventeen year old self.  
  
"Look, kid, it's not something to be worried about. I'm fine. You're fine," Ryan says, but the glare doesn't go away.   
  
The kid says, "I'm not a fucking kid,  _man_." It comes out sounding like a hiss, and Ryan doesn't have to look up know that he's gone. He could really go for a drink right now and he almost laughs at the irony when one of the bottles he picks up is much lighter than he remembers.   
  
He recycles everything - even rinses out the bottles properly first - but he can't get rid of the feeling of having been caught red-handed.


End file.
